Getting Old
by Scribbler
Summary: The Sky and the Dawn and the Sun fic. Cid and Tifa have had an argument. Kind of. "This is getting pretty pathetic, you know."


**Disclaimer****:** Cheesily not mine.

**A/N****:**Written for Penn as a prize for the _Sky __and __the __Dawn __and __the __Sun_ fan art contest. This prize is way overdue owing to various life traumas and whatnot. Penn asked for Sky-verse Cid and Tifa being ootsy. Well done and I hope this is what you hoped for, babs!

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><p><em><strong>Getting Old<strong>_

© Scribbler, November 2011

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><p>There are days, and then there are <em>days<em>. And this? This is a day and a half. No question.

Cid stares at the inside of his elbow, wondering how long it would take to die if a half-repaired engine fell on his head. Maybe he could snuff it before anyone found him. Maybe he could lock the door to make sure.

Too late. The workshop door is creaky and the floor made from cement, which makes advancing footsteps echo like a herd of stampeding horses. Something clunks down in front of him, just short of his elbow. He tries not to inhale, but the scents of cheese and eggs is too strong.

"Are you still sulking?"

He grunts. Fuck, he's drooling. He clamps his lips shut and thinks of burning puppies and kicking orphans in the nads. Sick orphans. Sick orphans in rags. Yeah.

Tifa probably thinks the noise is just a grunt, but his elbow knows it means 'fuck off'. He can't articulate the words any clearer or she'll hear and … Fucking _hell_, when did he start caring about whether she hears his potty mouth? When has he ever had to work to keep himself in a bad mood? Sick orphans? Puh-lease.

"This is getting pretty pathetic, you know," Tifa goes on blithely, unaware of Cid plotting elaborate suicides with monkey wrenches, blunt screwdrivers and the old spittoon in the corner. When was that thing emptied last, anyway? "You're overreacting and you know it."

Another grunt. He feels her eyeballing the back of his neck.

She sighs. "For a grown man, you can be a real baby."

A man's pride can only take so much. Cid raises his head and fixes her with a stare strong enough to peel chrome off steel. Tifa stares right back – right fucking back in his eyes like he's some harmless bunny rabbit caught in _her_ headlights, instead of the other way around. The worst part is, he _does_ look away first. His stinging pride zips down his arm, which shoots out and shoves the plate away so violently it skids off the workbench and crashes to the floor. Omelette and chunks of ceramic splat and shatter into a slimy, spiky mess. Cid's pride shrinks in on itself, leaving regret to creep back up his arm and into the rest of his body.

Tifa doesn't say anything. She just fetches the dustpan and cleans it up. Cid watches, hesitant about helping. Would that be patronising? Eventually he clambers out of his chair and tries to get onto his hands and knees, but she pushes him back. Her push is so forceful, he scoots backwards with a 'whoof'.

"Leave it."

"Aw, fuck." Cid rubs his face with both hands and runs them, one after the other, through his hair.

When he looked in the mirror this morning, he noticed the spreading grey at his temples. The lines around his eyes seemed to stand out like canyons viewed from space. Maybe he'll buy some shitty headband and wear it to cover the grey. Maybe he could decorate them with goggles or some shit to make it less obvious. And maybe he should just put a paper bag over his head. It would do the same job and keep him from having to look at Tifa's non-judgemental judgement.

Fuck it all.

Tifa slaps her hands against her thighs to get the dust off. She doesn't look at him.

"Msrruff," Cid mumbles.

She looks up. "What?"

He cringes. "Msurree."

She squints, uncomprehending. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fucking well okay. Hunky fucking dory. Peachy fucking keen," he seethes. "I said I'm _sorry_." He sighs. He can do this. Hell, he survived so much shit already, what's one more piece? "You … the cigarettes …" Are those his molars cracking under pressure? He could bite right through a shiny penny right now. Or a steel bar. Chew up scrap metal and spit out nails.

Tifa shakes her head. "I get it. You can stop now."

Cid refuses to be grateful to her for letting him off the hook. He's still mad, damn it! Slight desperation kicks his mind into high gear, but burning puppies dissolve into a vaguely warm feeling located somewhere in his upper abdomen. Acid reflux. Gotta be.

"I'll make another omelette," Tifa says, heading for the door.

"No goddamn onions this time," Cid barks after her. "But plenty of cheese. Not that low-fat crap, either!"

Tifa raises her hand. It might be agreement. As if. Cid prepares his taste-buds for cheese like string and burned bits. She means well. It ain't her fault she don't know shit. And who knows? Maybe someday he'll actually miss days like this.

Yeah, right.

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><p><em><strong>Fin.<strong>_


End file.
